Division of Labor

Himself and I had a little disagreement over household chores this weekend. Well, actually, it wasn’t so much a disagreement as it was a spectacular display (by me) of passive-aggressiveness and then a lot of apologizing (from both of us.)

I came home from work earlier than expected, and Sgt. Lucky hadn’t gotten around to making the bed. Also, neither of us had taken the garbage out for awhile, because we live on the fourth floor and we’re super lazy. So I did both those things, huffing and puffing, and then made dinner. My halo was visible from space.

Eventually, Sgt. Lucky got tired of watching me scoot around the apartment shooting the side eye at every dust mote and unfiled paper and suggested that maybe I was mad at him for not picking up while I was at work.

“No, I’m not mad,” I said. “I’m just … annoyed and, like, maybe a little irritated and I feel like I do everything and, OK, maybe I’m mad.”

Short version, he apologized and then I promised to practice saying, “Hey, will you pick that up?” in the mirror until it was second nature and then we both moved on.

This lady says, "It's not at all annoying when you stand over me while I make awful '50s food."
Until later, when I replaced the towels in the bathroom and Sgt. Lucky said, “If you don’t stop doing everything, I’m never going to catch up.”

“It’s not a contest, I promise,” I said, and went to take a shower. Where, as usual, I had one of my best ideas.

“I’m really sorry that you did everything today,” he said, when we were going to bed.

“That’s OK,” I said. “I left you a giant, disgusting glob of red hair in the drain.”